


Rhodium

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bondage, Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Ficlet, Gags, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Submission, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor offers Fingolfin a strange, dark gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhodium

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: **Warning for _possible_ consent issues** ; this is from Fingolfin’s POV, and while I headcanon Maedhros is into this, Fingolfin has no way of knowing that.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s strange to walk through the halls of Tirion; the summons come rarely, and only ever from Finwë, never Fëanáro. When Ñolofinwë first received the message, he thought perhaps it was Arafinwë playing a trick on him. But he came nonetheless and isn’t disappointed; he’s brought to Fëanáro, and then to Fëanáro’s private quarters, something Ñolofinwë never thought he’d see. They’re as lavish as he’d expect, but darker than he’d thought, with sweeping murals and many pillars of stone, few windows and more crimson, gold-rimmed hangings. Precious metals and gems glitter from every surface, always arrayed thoughtfully and artfully, and Ñolofinwë would compliment them if he weren’t warily biting his tongue. He can tell from the lack of bitterness in Fëanáro’s eyes that this is truly his own bidding, and that’s suspicious to say the least. 

There are no servants in the depths Fëanáro guides them through, and he muses as he walks, “Atar has asked me to make more of an effort to entertain my brothers, and I love him enough to consider his requests. Therefore I have decided to share something with you far greater than any jewel I could offer, something special, sacred to our line. I am quite certain you have neither this great a treasure, nor would you be able to tame it if you did.”

Ñolofinwë quirks a brow at the word ‘tame’ but says nothing, still waiting. He has no wish to disrupt this tentative gesture, as their meetings are so wont to do. If he’s being given a gift by his eldest brother, he will simply have to accept it with grace, no matter what it is. Fëanáro glances back at him with a thin smile that seems to portend wry amusement. Then they reach the grand doors at the end of the corridor, and Fëanáro wraps his fingers around one gold-wrought handle to draw them open.

Inside is Fëanáro’s bedchamber, made obvious by the large, four-poster bed stationed along the back wall in the middle of the room, lined in thick quilts of red, with dark bookcases, furniture, and tall but covered windows about the walls. The light comes only from two candles perched upon high stands and the muffled glow through the windows’ dark curtains. At first, Ñolofinwë simply looks around, soaking this strange intimacy in.

Then he realizes how much more _intimate_ it is than he conceived, and his eyes are drawn to the foot of Fëanáro’s bed, where a single elf is perched upon the mattress. He sits on his rear with his knees folded beneath him, arms drawn taut behind his back, and his long, copper hair whisked over his shoulders. Ñolofinwë stops dead, the blood rushing from his face, but Fëanáro bids him forward, chuckling, “I thought as much. You have nothing to rival my children.”

The elf is no possession, but Fëanáro’s oldest son, yet he’s bound in such a way that he can do little more than move his head from side to side. Nelyafinwë shines golden in the light, his entire bodied bared for his father and his uncle. He doesn’t wear a stitch of clothing, only metalwork that Ñolofinwë’s sure Fëanáro must have crafted himself. A black bar holds Nelyafinwë’s knees open, strapped to them on either side, with similar straps down around his ankles, though Ñolofinwë can’t see if another bar lies at the back. Nelyafinwë’s arms must be similarly cuffed, because his shoulders are drawn at what looks like a painful angle, forcing his taut chest to arch forward, his lithe curves highlighted in the way he’s tightly held. Each of his rosy nipples is pebbled and clamped with a small metal device, sporting a silver chain draped loosely between them. A large collar encircles his neck, a thicker chain falling straight down his middle but drawn to the side over one thigh, then wrapped and knotted around the bedpost. His pert lips are stretched wide around a metal ring, the sides of it each drawn back in a loop that circles his head, forcing his mouth open. Ñolofinwë lingers here for a split-second longer than he should, eyeing Nelyafinwë’s pink tongue and dripping cavern, before roaming down to Nelyafinwë’s sizeable cock, wrapped securely in a number of attached metal hoops that hold him curved down around his sac. 

He is, indeed, a sight that Ñolofinwë’s never seen before, but also one he would’ve never thought to. His first thought is horror, then sheer disbelief, followed by a cloying heat that rips through him, bringing strife and guilt. Poor Nelyo has never looked so helpless, so debauched, but so glorious, and Ñolofinwë is instantly, shamefully aroused; he can’t help himself. He’s never seen anything so alluring, tempting, ripe and _ready to be taken_ , but he tramples down the base desires, the wild warrior inside himself, and the rest wants to save this poor creature. Ñolofinwë can’t tell from Nelyafinwë’s burning gaze if he agreed to this or not. It seems insane that he could. But Ñolofinwë knows that Nelyo has always loved his father, and Fëanor’s line have always been close, perhaps too close, though Ñolofinwë never before knew how much. 

“I have a number of these devices,” Fëanáro drawls, stepping closer to the bed. When he lifts his hand to stroke the back of his fingers against Nelyafinwë’s cheek, Nelyafinwë’s turns to press into them, his lashes fluttering down. A faint blush stirs across his face, but he’s otherwise bravely devoid of any shame that Ñolofinwë can see. Of course, Ñolofinwë has no way of knowing how often this occurs or the extent of it. For all he knows, Nelyafinwë is kept this way except for his brief appearances in public, and even those are often at his father’s hand. He must, at least, be set free to train. Surely Finwë would not allow this. But perhaps Nelyafinwë creeps into his father’s chambers specially to allow it, and the mere thought makes Ñolofinwë have to suppress a shudder. He tries to keep his reactions off his face, but it’s difficult. Fëanáro drifts down to Nelyafinwë’s chin, grips it tight, and tilts it up. He continues, “These are the ones that look best on my prized son, but I can forge you others, if you wish. Your eldest is not as fair as mine, nor as strong and therefore fun to hold down, but perhaps he can be trained to provide something of worth.”

Ñolofinwë ignores the dig, jaw tight. He tries not to think of any of his sons in this position; the idea makes him sick. He has enough to see with his nephew. He grits out, as restrained as he can manage, “I do not use my sons this way.” Fëanáro looks unsurprised and like he’ll roll his eyes. 

He couldn’t truly be doing this at their father’s bidding, and it makes Ñolofinwë wonder if Fëanáro’s called him here simply to make him uncomfortable. Or to gloat. Or, perhaps, to demonstrate some kind of dominance, control. To show that Nelyo, who Ñolofinwë’s never held anything against, is forever bound to his father. Ñolofinwë has the fleeting thought of their brothers visiting, offered the same treat, or perhaps other of Fëanáro’s handsome sons bound in different configurations. Ñolofinwë is next in line and therefore offered the eldest. He means to tear his eyes away, to look solely at his brother, but it’s difficult. 

Fëanáro idly strokes his Nelyo, straying down once to drag his palm hard across Nelyafinwë’s chest, then to give a sharp tug to the chain that ties Nelyafinwë’s nipples. He makes a strangled noise around his gag, but its meaning is unclear to Ñolofinwë. Fëanáro scolds, “Hush,” and Nelyafinwë closes his eyes, like trying to focus and obey. Ñolofinwë would’ve thought him too fierce for bonds, but clearly, Fëanáro’s line can’t be predicted. Their loyalty shouldn’t be underestimated. As Fëanáro pets his son’s body, he sighs, “Very well. For Atar’s sake, I will extend you this. Not just the sight of my best toys, but the chance to play with them. I will leave you with my son until I have finished my work. Perhaps once you have tasted that which I created, you will understand my pride.” 

Ñolofinwë means, of course, to vehemently deny this offer. The wording alone angers him—dear Nelyo is no _toy_. Either he needs to be thoroughly bound to be handed out, or he allots his father such trust, and either way it isn’t something Ñolofinwë feels he should have any hand in. The fact that Nelyo has grown into such a beautiful being is of less import. Fëanáro must see the hesitance, because he adds, “He is more than loyal to his precious Ata, of course, but you have my word that he will behave for you. Such is my will, and the depths of my skill that I can build such fierce flames and yet control them. You may do whatever you wish to him, and he will bear it, for it will be nothing to what his Ata’s touch can bring him.” When Fëanáro runs his hands back through Nelyafinwë’s hair, combing it down, Nelyafinwë tilts his head back for it, arching up and trembling. The swell of his chest makes Ñolofinwë’s throat dry. 

He would say no, but when Nelyafinwë’s eyes return to him, they’re a storm. So much swims in them that Ñolofinwë’s doesn’t know whether to agree in order to release the chains and gather Nelyafinwë into his arms or to destroy everything he is and surrender to his sick desires. He can see enough to know that Nelyafinwë’s slender, pliant body would feel so _delicious_ beneath his, and Nelyafinwë would taste better than even Yavanna’s wine. 

Finally, Ñolofinwë manages to say, “Thank you,” though it comes out cold and hollow: a clear lie. The cruel laughter in Fëanáro’s eyes says that he knows and doesn’t care: perhaps he’s delighting in corrupting his younger brother. Ñolofinwë has to look away, and he searches Nelyafinwë’s eyes to know if he’s done the right thing. Nelyafinwë’s lips seem to smile around his gag, and his flushed eyes look pleased, his body arching near again. He bends his spine so that his chains hang free of his skin, even his cock swelling in its cage. 

Fëanáro deliberately drags his hand along Nelyafinwë’s body as he withdraws it, ordering slickly, “Be good for your uncle.” Nelyafinwë looks like he wouldn’t imagine anything else.

Then Fëanáro leaves, his footsteps heavy in Ñolofinwë’s ears. He releases an audible sigh when the door closes and they’re left alone. He looks at Nelyafinwë, who’s so fiercely loyal to someone so clearly troubled. Eyes raking over his supple frame, Ñolofinwë’s wracked with sick fantasies of surging forward to ravage Nelyafinwë beyond what any other elf could give him. 

But in the end, Ñolofinwë comes forward only to free him.


End file.
